


Unnameable

by kijikun



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Lovecraftian, M/M, Rituals, Season/Series 05, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-11
Updated: 2011-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 05:31:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kijikun/pseuds/kijikun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This ritual is Sam's only chance to save Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unnameable

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: pandionpandeus

_The most merciful thing in the world, I think, is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents._ \- HP Lovecraft

It’s raining. Cold biting rain that stings his exposed skin.

He’s about to make himself a lot more exposed.

This is one of the stupidest things Sam thinks he’s done. Stupid and possibly suicidal aside. But Dean’s dying.

Dean’s dying slowly and painfully, and Sam can’t -- won’t just sit by. Cas, Cas is too depowered to do anything but take away some of Dean’s pain. Onto himself.

Which, shit, the look on Dean’s face when he realized it. It was like his brother thought hurting Cas was worse than dying. Sam --

Sam’s sort of jealous of what they have, which is rather messed up.

He breathes out through his teeth, a long hiss.

The large flat rock in the center of the small clearing mocks him. Sam clenches his jaw and pulls off his shirt. The sharp sting of the rain makes him wince, but he keeps stripping.

He has to be nude for this.

The rock and the clearing were luck and Bobby’s near epic knowledge of things occult. Sam’s -- not sure if Bobby will forgive him when he finds out why Sam needed to know about ritual spots.

Sam fishes his knife out of his jeans once he’s fully naked.

Shivering, Sam walks barefoot through the soaked grass, each footstep squishing. _This is for Dean,_ he reminds himself.

Dean that went to _hell_ for him. And what’s Sam done for him?

Nothing but betray and let his brother down.

“I can do this,” he says out loud.

He sits down gingerly on the cold stone. It’s beyond cold, it feels icy in a way he doesn’t think is natural. This is a place of power after all. The ley lines are strong.

Sam’s hand shakes for a moment as he lifts the knife to his own chest. He changes his grip and starts the fine cuts that make up the summoning markings. It has to be done on the stone.

Spilled blood is important.

Rivulets of blood run down his chest mixed with rain water and fall to the stone. Each drop that hits seems to almost _hiss_ , then be absorbed by the stone.

Sam starts to chant.

Rituals like this weren’t meant for one person, but Sam has to make do.

He has to. For Dean.

The pain is there, but he shoves it back; he’s felt worse after all. He’s died, he can cut into his own chest.

Finally the cutting is done.

Sam’s voice wavers slightly as he lays back against the stone. His hands should be bound but he can’t manage that on his own.

“I offer myself to you,” Sam says. “My body, my blood, my self, for the boon I ask.”

The rain feels like it’s harder, colder. It bites into the bleeding cuts on his chest, making him shiver with cold and pain.

“Come, take what is offered to you.”

The forest goes unearthly quiet, only the sound of the rain goes on. The rock beneath him seems to pulse, then -- oh shit -- he can’t move. He’s stuck hard and fast to the rock.

Sam’s breath shakes out of his lungs. _For Dean, this is for Dean_.

“You little fool,” a familiar voice hisses from above his head.

Sam’s fingers curl into his hands, nails biting into his skin. “I offer myself to you, my body, my blood, my self, for the boon I ask,” he repeats, dutiful, like the ritual requires.

“Shut up,” the voice demands. “Do you have any idea -- no, of course you don’t. You couldn’t even learn the one lesson I tried to teach you.”

“Trickster,” Sam breathes.

The Trickster walks into Sam’s now limited field of vision. He looks --

He looks nothing like he did the other times Sam saw him. No -- maybe like that very last time, when the Trickster had been all power and barely contained rage.

There’s power running through every line of the Trickster’s body. His eyes are rimmed with gold and every step closer he takes, Sam’s primitive hind brain screams to flee from this predator.

The Trickster is shirtless, jeans riding low on his hips, like Sam called him while he was getting dressed or some nonsense.

Thunder rolls over head for the first time and a flash of lightning illuminates the clearing, casting shadows off the Trickster that make Sam’s brain go sideways.

Shadows of things that _should not be_.

“Why?” the Trickster demands, stopping close enough to curl his fingers around the edge of the stone, as if he’s trying not to touch.

Sam swallows hard and tries to stop looking behind the Trickster, at the shadows the lightning is casting. It -- _hurts_ to look at.

But he can’t stop...

“Dean,” he gasps out. “Dean’s dying.”

The Trickster makes a sound in the back of his throat. “You still haven’t learned,” he growls. The Trickster’s hand comes down on Sam’s wrists. The skin on skin contact almost feels like it’s burning. His gold rimmed eyes seem to pierce straight into Sam’s mind.

Sam shakes his head from side to side. “He’s _dying_ and Cas is going to kill himself trying to stop it,” the words tumble out.

His wrist is lifted, pressed above his head, before the Trickster takes hold of his other wrist.

“Cas.” The Trickster’s voice is careful, neutral. He doesn’t release Sam’s wrist or his gaze.

Sam tries to hold the words back, but they crowd in his throat, choking him. “Castiel, Dean’s angel. He’s falling.”

Both of Sam’s wrists are above his head now. The Trickster’s fingers stroke down Sam’s arms, pressing too hard at times. Sam’s shaking by the time they reach his shoulders.

And its not just from fear that he’d be stupid not to feel. There’s something close to shivery _want_ curling inside him

“Dean’s angel, Castiel,” the Trickster echoes and makes a sound that Sam’s ears hurt. Somehow though he thinks it’s a _laugh_.

“Save Dean, please,” Sam begs thickly, wishing he could do more than stare up at the Trickster and breathe.

The Trickster makes that horrible laugh again, then backs away from Sam. It’s then that Sam realizes that he hadn’t felt the rain, because now he feels it again. It threatens to force his eyes closed; he blinks rapidly, desperate to keep his eyes on the Trickster.

The Trickster starts stripping off his jeans. “You have no idea what you’ve done,” the Trickster hisses above the sound of the rain. “That ritual isn’t near what you think it was.”

Sam licks his lips, fighting back fear. He _summoned_ the Trickster for this. “You want to fuck me in exchange for saving Dean?”

“I _own_ you now, Sam Winchester,” the Trickster growls, stalking back towards Sam.

His skin is golden in the flashes of lightning and he moves like a predator stalking its prey. Power in every movement. Sam can’t help but look -- and part of him -- the part that went hot over the janitor so long ago -- just wants.

“That’s not what the ritual...” Sam argues.

“That ritual has been changed, corrupted,” the Trickster says slowly as if explaining it to a very slow child. “There are things I _have_ to do now. I should be grateful you didn’t know my true name.”

Sam reels, confused. He’d double checked that ritual, it just bound the one summoned to grant the boon --

The Trickster’s hand presses down onto the center of Sam’s chest. “True forms, Sammy, the ritual requires them.” His face twists into something like concern, something like sorrow. “You aren’t going to enjoy this.”

“I’ve had sex with men before,” Sam says carefully and he’s prepared to do this for Dean. Sex with the Trickster -- wouldn’t be a hardship.

The Trickster’s other hand strokes Sam’s check almost gently, turning his face up. Sam has to close his eyes against the rain.

“That won’t do,” the Trickster sighs. He snaps his fingers and the rain doesn’t stop, but dies back to a faint drizzle. “Open your eyes.”

Sam opens the obediently, which surprises him. He feels like...he wants to obey. “Compulsion,” he says.

The Trickster nods, bending over Sam’s prone body. “This will happen in my true form, Sam,” the Trickster says. “Do you understand. I -- I’m not going to try and hurt you.”

“You already have,” Sam laughs. “You killed my brother thousands of times.”

The hand on his chest trails down his stomach, curls around Sam’s somehow half hard cock. “You’ll enjoy it, but you won’t like it.”

Sam’s hips jerks up into the touch, or try to, but he can’t make them leave the stone.

“Your stuck there until this is finished,” the Trickster sounds regretful. “I’ll have to blindfold you.”

Sam licks his lips again. “What does your true form look like?”

The Trickster strokes his cock again, grasps Sam’s thighs, spreading them. “It’s better for you not to know.”

Sam wants to protest. He’d rather know. He’d rather face whatever is hiding under the guise of human skin face on, but the words are plugged up by the Trickster’s mouth over his. Sam’s eyes close reflexively. He doesn’t kiss back, but he doesn’t -- it doesn’t repulse him.

It’s -- the curl of shivery want swirls around in his gut again, and he lets the Trickster’s tongue slip into his mouth.

He’s kissing back before he runs out of air. When the Trickster backs off, lets Sam drag in desperate lung fulls, Sam tries to look up at him. Only to open his eyes to black, thick cloth draped over his eyes.

Something slippery touches his ankle, curls around it. It’s smooth, slick, and almost rubbery. Sam starts, tries to jerk away, but is held fast.

“Easy,” the Trickster’s voice sounds different. A deeper almost painful tone to hear. He kisses Sam again, slides his tongue into Sam’s mouth. He invades and distracts.

Sam almost regrets the kisses. It makes it harder to -- the _thing_ trails higher up his leg, strokes his inner thigh to the rhythm of the Trickster’s tongue.

His brain doesn’t want to acknowledge what it is even as another starts stroking his hip. There’s one around his wrists. Another flicking up and down his throat. Sam can’t process.

He gasps out something like a sob into the Trickster’s mouth. There’s nothing remotely like hands on him anymore.

“Shhh,” the Trickster hisses, mouth moving down Sam’s jaw. “I’ll make it as good as I can.”

Sam finds himself nodding. He’s still impossibly half hard, his brain unsure if these touches feel good amongst the weird feedback of wrong.

One of the things - tentacles, his mind supplies almost unwillingly - moves from where it was wrapped around his thigh. It slides up and trails down the length of Sam’s dick. And Sam is fully hard so quickly it almost hurts.

He gasps for breath. The rain is falling, just a drizzle, but it trickles into his mouth just the same. It doesn’t even _taste_ like rain. Too sweet. Too good. Makes Sam want to hang his mouth open and drink.

“My own special brew,” the Trickster murmurs in his ear. “Always like sweet things. Like you.”

Sam opens his mouth to argue, but it comes off in a choked, ragged moan. The tentacle -- appendage, Sam corrects his brain because he thinks he’ll lose it if he keeps thinking tentacle. The appendage curls around his dick and strokes. Sam’s muscles twitch with the need to thrust upwards.

His fingers clench and unclench. He --

The appendages are everywhere. Touching Sam in all the places that go straight to his groin. The Trickster’s mouth is at his throat, mouthing the pulse point.

“Please.” The word slips through and Sam tries to turn his head away from it.

Teeth drag down his throat to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “Please what, Sam?”

The tapered point of one appendage slips under Sam’s balls, strokes that spot just behind. Sam clenches his jaw. He’s not going to beg. He’ll do this, he’ll let it happen, but he --

He can’t want this. He doesn’t think his mind will handle wanting this.

It slips further back, spreading slick around Sam’s hole. “I can feel you straining. Wanting to move but not able,” the Trickster says into Sam’s skin. He bites down briefly. “I can hear you.”

A sob escapes.

Oh god, he wants. He wants.

“You wanted me back then, too,” the Trickster is saying. “I should have taken you then. There was no chance of it later, huh?”

“Stop talking,” Sam demands, begs.

The appendage starts to press in, slowly, giving Sam time to adjust. Time Sam doesn’t want. He wants the Trickster to be silent. He wants to put his mind someplace else. Away from this need curling in his gut.

The Trickster kisses down Sam’s chest. The tip of his tongue flicks over one of Sam’s nipples. And _shit_ , it’s like a line of fire straight to his dick.

Precome dribbles onto his stomach.

“Rather have you able to move,” the Trickster tells him, between licks. “I wouldn’t have taken you this way.” It’s almost an apology. It’s almost regret.

Sam’s eyes clench shut behind the blindfold and his nails bite into his palms. The appendage works deeper, brushing against his prostate, sending a shower of sparks through his system. “Please,” he whispers. The protests of _wrong_ , _impossible_ , _not supposed to be_ have been almost drowned out.

His soft plea earns him a biting kiss to his mouth, then a deeper, wet one that leaves his jaw aching. “Like jumping into the sea,” the Trickster says into his mouth.

It makes no sense, but the thing inside him is hotter than any human. It’s -- good. Even before it starts to move in and out of Sam.

Each thrust feels like it goes impossibly deep before almost withdrawing completely. Sam is reduced to gasping out sounds of need, trying to drag in the air he needs around the Trickster’s aching kisses.

The Trickster is starting to sound wrecked, low, inhuman sounding moans between kisses. The other appendages tighten and loosen with the rhythm. The one around his dick moves in steady strokes. Sam’s stomach is wet with precome and slick from the thing.

Sam’s brain goes sideways as the appendage inside him _twists_ and seems to expand. And he’s _there_ , right on the edge, voice raised in a hoarse wordless plea for mercy.

He crashes into his orgasm, rough, dirty, and aching. It leaves him raw and twitching while the Trickster moves above him. Sam lasts a few more strokes before he’s biting down helplessly on the Trickster’s bottom lip.

“Sam,” the Trickster voice makes something in Sam’s brain _hurt_. The Trickster thrusts into Sam once more before the appendage starts to pulse, flooding Sam with heat.

“Sam,” the Trickster’s voice is soft, _normal_. There are hands stroking his back.

Sam blinks open his eyes. The Trickster is sitting next to him on the grass. He looks normal. Sam doesn’t remember moving from the stone or winding up on his stomach in the damp grass.

“Hey, there, kiddo.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it and just breathes in deep. He tries to collect his thoughts to get a grasp on the world being something he can handle again.

Sam feels wet, messy. A little used, a little raw.

“Are we done?” he asks carefully, trying to find the will to push himself from the ground, to push away from the Trickster’s soothing hand.

The Trickster sighs sadly. “No. I own you now, Sam,” he pauses. “But we’re done with that, we never have to do that again.”

Sam flexes his fingers and toes in the damp grass. The Trickster’s hand just isn’t stroking, it’s tracing runes, sigils. “What are you?”

The hand moves to his hair. “Clever boy,” the Trickster sighs. “They called me Gabriel once.”

Sam goes still for a moment, then he breathes out, breathes in. Takes in the scent of damp grass, takes in the sound of the forest alive with sound. “Okay. Gabriel.”

Gabriel is quiet at his side. Sam -- Sam should be angry, upset. He should feel used but he did the summoning. He chose this...

And this impossibility is one his brain has no trouble sliding into place. It fits.

“We’d better go fix up that brother of yours,” Gabriel says almost too calmly. “Before mine does something foolish. More foolish.”

Sam nods into the grass. He pushes up from the ground, gets unsteadily to his feet and finds his miraculously dry clothes.

Gabriel just watches.

Sam finds he watches back. Watches Gabriel’s hands, remembers the feel of things not of this world on his skin.

“What if I want to do it again?”

Gabriel’s mouth curves up into something like a smile. But it’s not an answer.


End file.
